Though I should be sleeping, I'm seeing eyes tonight. The blank green with large brown specks eyes of my mother as she stares vacantly toward me, hugging her new plush puppy, kissing it on its stuffed head. Those eyes crinkle in laughter but then the pendulum swings violently and they cloud with tears.
The eyes of one of my oldest friends, still baby blue, filled with joy that he gets to live the life he does,flooded with love for his wife, his kids, his job. It might have taken him long years to grow up, to grow into the man God intended him to be, but he's getting there. As we all are getting there, further up, higher in, closer to Him.
I'm seeing the eyes of the women around the table tonight, the ones I broke bread with, ate lasagne with, those older eyes who have seen more of the world than I have--so much more of its heartaches--that I only dare speak to them from this chair of weakness, these words of fear and trembling. The eyes of the women younger than me, eyes still empty of the spectacles we all get to eventually. Eyes who cry buckets over their children, their health, myriad other woes. I look at those eyes, staring hopefully back at me, longing for some piece of wisdom that will lighten their load, or even only make sense of it. But I look back into their eyes, and pray that His power will be made complete in my weakness, that His grace is, as He promises it is, sufficient for me. I watch them as they tell their stories, watch their eyes move from pain to hope to acceptance as I speak. Yes, their eyes tell a story, maybe even one they try not to speak.
I'm seeing the bright eyes of my daughter and her rejoicing roommate for the growth that wasn't cancer, for the quick recovery of that roommate, and the still available promise of bearing a child someday. I think of how weary that 19-year-old's eyes seemed earlier in the week as she waited for this surgery, worried about it, fretted about it. And I imagine her eyes tonight, still in the hospital but fully at peace, maybe even tearfully at peace.
And I see the eyes of my gentle giant husband, who has the more beautiful eyes in the room, who isn't afraid to let tears run, isn't afraid to admit he doesn't have all the answers. Without all the answers, he lives the questions, and I see that curiosity living in his beautiful blue eyes as well.
And, somehow, in some way, I see all the eyes--of the hopeless (in my mom), the content (in my friend), the troubled (in these women), and in the joyful (my daughter and her friends). And I see the love in my Beve's. So much can be learned just by the eyes. So much of God can been seen in their eyes. I just have to look.